


Anniversary

by Faltering_Light



Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, Heavy Drinking, No actual inebriation, Slade Wilson is a parent of some sort, all three of his kids are mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26370898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faltering_Light/pseuds/Faltering_Light
Summary: Once a year, Slade actually gives serious thought to his parenting skills.
Kudos: 13
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to [Romiress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/pseuds/Romiress) and [NotBatman52](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotBatman52) for excellent beta work and an extra shoutout to NotBatman for tag assistance and also the title! This is for Whumptober theme #24 prompt "Sensory Deprivation", playing off the fact that Slade just refuses to feel guilty for anything ever.

There were too many bottles all over the fucking floor, and every single goddamn one was empty.

Not that it really mattered.

Slade idly ran his thumb around the rim of the bottle resting on his stomach before sliding his hand down to grip the stupid thing properly so he could drain the rest of it. Useless fucking shit, nasty bottom-of-the-barrel crap that he usually wouldn’t be caught dead drinking. He let it slip from his hand into the pile closest to the couch and pulled a face at the round of clinks it set off- fucking annoying, but the sound of glass shattering against the wall had stopped being satisfying a few hours ago.

Probably wouldn’t bother a normal human that much, but that was half his fucking problem today of all days.

Today was a fucking anniversary.

Not a good one, of course- if he had any of those, none were coming to mind.

Not that this one was really his, anyway. Just his  _ fault. _

This was the anniversary that really drove the nail in the coffin of his idea of actually, maybe, possibly being a  _ good _ parent.

He wasn’t fucking stupid, he knew he usually hovered around “decent at best” and, just.

Good parents didn’t only hear from their kids if they ran into them in the field.

He still wasn’t sure exactly where he went wrong.

Most days... Most days he reframed it so it was someone else’s fault.

Addie’s, for all the fighting, especially in front of the kids.

Billy, for giving him other places to be, whether that meant providing his couch or a job.

The snot-nose Teen Titans, making a child soldier of one of his boys and killing the other.

The “Justice” League, for enabling that kind of bullshit, putting kids even younger than he had been when he joined up into battles to the death on a regular basis.

Addie again, for telling them things they never should have fucking  _ ever _ have heard about either of them or the program he’d been drafted for and the work he did before he was discharged. For spinning it for them like it was a goddamned meet-cute, giving them stupid ideas like that in the first place.

Lillian for not letting him know Rose even fucking  _ existed _ until way too late, for keeping her where he couldn't keep her safe.

The Teen Titans and especially Nightwing for training her, making one of his babies a  _ weapon _ in a way he had never wanted for them, and then letting her go on top of it to let her do the one thing he wanted even less for her.

On his worst days? Rose herself, for never even trying to track him down earlier, for believing whatever her mother had told her to keep her from looking. Grant, for being stupid enough to romanticize putting bullets into people’s heads- a job is a job is a job, and there was never anything more to it than that. Joey...

Joey was always where he failed, in every way possible.

Sweet, soft Joey, who had always made him cards for Father’s day, even if he wasn't there.

Sweet, gentle Joey who had always yelled “Daddy” and launched himself into his arms when he got home from a job.

Creative, thoughtful Joey who raced off only to come back with a stack of drawings he had made because, as he had said so seriously, “This way you won’t have missed anything, Daddy.”

Little, tiny Joey, who had almost bled out in his arms so many years ago today.

His Joey, his  _ son, _ who probably never understood why his Daddy was never around much after that, who he understood with what he knew about kids now had and possibly still  _ did _ blame himself for one of Slade’s biggest failures.

He had always been able to handle Grant more easily, the son that most closely mirrored himself, but Joey... Joey was something precious, something to be proud of.

Being able to handle Grant more easily was a fucking cop-out.

He hadn’t wanted to risk breaking someone he treasured so much, his  _ one  _ good thing. By the time Joey was old enough to even really interact with, teach anything, he had already known he was fucking Grant up.

He turned to face the back of the couch, pressing further into the cushions, and was glad that he had had the foresight to leave his phone elsewhere even before he went on his liquor run. Today was a very, very bad day to have an easy way to contact his kids in reach.

On days like today, he could admit to himself that he could have gone to a goddamn support group or picked up a few books or called someone for advice, something,  _ anything _ , the first time Grant flinched when he reached to touch him.

He could admit to himself, at least, that he had been too  _ afraid _ to.

Before then he would have fucking sworn up and down that he was doing better with his son than his own father had done with him. And instead of sucking it the fuck up and just admitting that he was wrong, that he needed help, he just... fucking...  _ wrote off one of his boys _ , said better at all was  _ enough _ and just made damn sure Joey was mostly handled by Addie... How fucked up was that, that he had basically  _ assigned his babies handlers _ instead of learning how to do things right?

Most of the time, he walked around with his head buried so far up his own ego that "better than his own father" was good enough. He had done everything he could. A personalised local anaesthetic in the form of a fundamental fact, where nothing that should tear him apart inside does, because  _ why should it if it isn't his fault _ ?

But today...

Today, when he could feel the blood seeping around his fingers from a tiny throat the most strongly...

Today, on this anniversary where he always makes himself lean into knowing that Grant is  _ dead _ ...

That Joey is still alive, but will never speak again, that his little boy never got to hear his voice crack and deepen...

That Rose is a little carbon copy with the same sort of wounds deep inside that time can't heal, all the loss and pain and drive to  _ push through it _ and hurt herself over and over and  _ over _ ...

Thank fuck he couldn't try to get ahold of them, because no matter what he said, no matter what he did, Joey and Rose wouldn't want to hear it because they both knew that every single bit of what they had turned out to be, every last single way they had been hurt and learned to hurt...

Was  _ all. His. Fault. _


End file.
